


Creator (/Destroyer)

by Shadow_of_Quill



Series: Biomagical Manufacturing [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Older Brother Papyrus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 04:34:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12100812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_of_Quill/pseuds/Shadow_of_Quill
Summary: Papyrus was born to make things.Like his brother.





	Creator (/Destroyer)

Magic and chalkdust gather between his hands. He frowns in concentration, eyesockets narrowing - just a little more, almost there - then whoops with triumph as the construct solidifies into a pure white femur.

"That's great! You did it, kid!" Aers cheers, as thrilled as he is. He beams up at Aers, cradling the bone to his ribs. "Do you feel okay? Any strain? Tired?"

"I'M FINE!" he insists. "I CAN KEEP GOING!" He proves it by reaching to the chalkdust pile again and crafting a set of distal phalanges, careful not to let the delicate forms fuse together and become useless.

Aers yelps, then laughs. "Wow, you really can!"

 

He stands with the adults, and looks at his creation with pride. It might look unimpressive to a stranger, but everyone there with him knows how much effort is embodied in the stout skeleton before them, knows how much he struggled to make the proportions of the individual bones harmonise. (Scalene thinks that his magic will grow as he ages, that someday he could create an entire skeleton with the same effort it takes now to finish each part. He's looking forwards to that.)

Tainge nudges at his back. "Go on. Last part. We're here for you," they whisper.

He grins, swallowing down his nerves (only metaphorically, of course, he _is_ a skeleton) and steps forwards. The magic in the skeleton resonates with his own as he focuses on his **hope** that this will work (a glow starts to pulse in the empty ribcage), his **love** for this family of his, the people who created him and raised him (the glow brightens), his **compassion** for his new creation (the glow pulls in on itself, condensing down till it's the size of one of his phalanges).

Everyone is holding their breath.

And then the top of the glow tightens to a point, and the bottom spreads into two curves, and he bursts into tears of joy as his new sibling's soul stabilises in their ribcage.

"It. Worked? ...It _worked,"_ Scalene gasps, and then they're all screaming and whooping, hugging each other, hugging him, and he clutches his new sibling's hand and laughs through his tears as they all celebrate together.

 

His new sibling decides to be a 'him', to be a 'brother'. His new brother is small, and rounded, and has stats of one and one and one.

His new brother might just be the most important person in his world.

Oh, the rest of their family are important - they _matter_ \- but when they ask him to make another sibling, a _better_ sibling, and he sees how his brother's feelings are hurt by the suggestion that he isn't enough, isn't good enough, there's not a single moment of hesitation in his response.

"WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT? I THINK I'VE FORGOTTEN HOW TO MAKE SKULLS."

There's facepalming, headshaking, but their family laugh along and let him pretend.

He'd like more siblings, but he can wait till his brother knows for sure that he won't be replaced by them.

The magic still wells up in him, threatening to force its way out, burns and aches in his bones till he learns to rechannel the power to give himself more energy (and sacrificing the need for sleep isn't a disadvantage at all), learns to affect his own stats, learns to control his magic - and therefore his self - in ways no other monster can match.

It's worth it. His brother's trust is worth all the effort and pain.

 

When the power is too strong to be denied, when he can't hold back any longer or he _will_ injure himself, he makes femur after femur after femur. Without a full skeleton, without a _soul,_ they turn yellow and brown, turn more fragile as time passes - but they don't disintegrate.

When other monsters question them, he smiles, claims they're his attacks, and pretends not to realise how different they are from any other monster's magical constructs.

 

It's strange for a being who was created to manufacture footsoldiers to hear his neighbours and acquaintances describe him as 'naive' or 'clueless', but he doesn't let on.

If they don't know how good his hearing really _is,_ that's their problem, not his.

And he thinks he might prefer being childish to being a vital preparation for war.

His world changes around him, and he does his best to change with it.

 

...His brother is dead.

 

He stares at the dustpile silently. He can feel his brother's magic, his brother's essence, making the dust something he cannot use to form a new skeleton (and it's a relief because that means they _are_ monsters, they _are,_ their souls are as good as any other's despite being formed from scientific theory instead of parents) (and it's agonising because _his brother is dead and he cannot bring him back)..._

He turns and leaves.

He'll need a great deal of chalkdust.

 

His new creations - his new _siblings,_ siblings who his brother will never meet, siblings who will never meet their dead brother - are not so well-formed as his brother was. He is out of practice. He is working from pain and sorrow and guilt instead of hope and pride and joy, and it shows in the oddities of his new siblings' forms, in their own pain and sorrow.

These siblings of his were not made to be companions, and he is so sorry for that, but they are of him and share his compassion.

They want to achieve what they were made for.

They all want vengeance for the brother they will never meet, the brother who would have been horrified to meet them.

_(Sans would have hated this,_ pulses in his soul, twinned with _Sans isn't here to hate this_ and the two thoughts drive him on, a rhythm only he can hear - _Sans would have hated this/Sans isn't here/Sans would have hated this/Sans isn't here,_ and he hates himself when he realises one of his new siblings twitches with every beat of the rhythm in his soul to the point they must be hearing it. I'm sorry, he thinks, but there's no point in saying it, not when he's not sorry enough to _stop_ what he's doing to them all.)

I'm sorry, he thinks, looking at this army he has created to avenge his dead brother.

We know, echoes back silently.

 

There are two skeleton brothers living in Snowdin.

If you truly wish to kill either of them...

...make sure you start with the taller one.


End file.
